


Take Two Aspirin (And Call Me in the Morning)

by simplyprologue



Category: The Newsroom (US TV)
Genre: Banter, F/M, Fluff, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Post - Season 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-30
Updated: 2014-08-30
Packaged: 2018-02-15 08:56:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2223072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyprologue/pseuds/simplyprologue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>MacKenzie versus the flu.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take Two Aspirin (And Call Me in the Morning)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WonderTwinC](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WonderTwinC/gifts).



> **A/N:** For Ched, who said "I really just want Will cuddling a sick Mac on the couch as they watch reruns of SVU." Well, ask and ye shall receive. (Kind of. I never got them to the couch.)

The difficult thing about Mac being sick is that, absent a limb being in danger of falling off or blood gushing from a gaping wound, she steadfastly refuses to _stop moving._ And whereas Will generally has no complaints in regards to Mac being an unstoppable force to his immovable object, her predilection for long hours and her unceasing worth ethic becomes worrisome when she’s running a fever of a hundred and god-knows-what (she won’t let him take an accurate reading) and her eyes are red and glassy.

He’s fairly certain it’s the flu, despite the fact that they both got their shots, and that he’s managed to go this long (several endless, hacking cough-filled days) without getting sick is because his immune system is resting solely on its farm-bred laurels.

“I spent twenty-six months packed together with marines in tin boxes they called bases, and I got much less sleep then than I do now,” Mac protests when he shuffles her into bed Friday night. “I think my white blood cells are up to par.”

The thermometer, which he has finally gotten to stay under her tongue for more than ten seconds, beeps.

“One hundred and two. Point _four_ ,” he reads, before shoving it into her face. “You’re sick. Go to sleep.”

Mac sighs, wiggling down under the covers. “But it’s barely ten o’clock.”

Will barely resists pointing out that she’s been up since seven, on the phone with a source in Moscow, and spent the better part of her day running around the bullpen in her four-inch heels.

“I honestly have no idea how you’ve managed to stay on your feet for this long,” is what he settles for, shaking his head as he walks towards the bathroom to assemble a cocktail of NyQuil Cold and Flu and his prescription-strength Naproxen.

Snorting softly, she rolls onto her side when he sits on his side of the bed, handing her the medication one and a time.

“Spite, mostly,” she answers after a swallow of whatever abomination Vicks passes off as cherry-flavored. “If I don’t lie down then they can’t put daisies on my chest.”

“Roses, at least,” he mutters.

Mac lifts an arched brow. “As if I’m the only one in the room who’s almost--quite literally--worked themselves to death.”

And it was in this room specifically, he thinks, remembering stumbling past the bed in an attempt to get to the bathroom in time. Nodding sharply, he concedes the argument but puts a cold washcloth on her forehead anyway. “Good point.”

He gets her water after that, and her Blackberry charger, and places her laptop on the nightstand because while in a perfect world MacKenzie would just sleep, if she wakes up in the middle of the night and can’t fall back asleep he’d rather she not have to get up to scrounge around the living room for her work bag. All the while Mac rolls her eyes at him, dutifully reminding him that she is not a child in need of a nursemaid, that she’s reported from damp caves more threatening than the _flu_ , for fuck’s sake.

His response to that is a very undignified whine that he refuses to acknowledge as a noise that’s come from his mouth.

Somewhere in the middle of his (she calls it “nesting”, which is preposterous) collecting anything and everything Mac could need she slumps down into the pillows against their headboard and reaches for the TV remote, switching on a _SVU_ marathon. She sighs precisely twice before realizing that she probably wants him to get into bed with her, not worry about fetching the humidifier he knows is in her all-but-abandoned apartment uptown.

“Elliot’s about to get angry at modern technology,” she quietly muses, after he finishes stripping down to his boxers and undershirt and slides under the covers.

Dryly, he laughs. “You know I hate this show.”

She nods, trying to find a comfortable position in which to prop her head up on his shoulder, but can’t. “That’s half the fun, Mr. ADA. Anyone ever tell you you’d look good on television?”

Huffing, he sits up and spreads his legs so that she can lie back between them, against his chest.

“The original is better,” he says, ignoring her comment. Keeping still, he lets her make herself comfortable against him before pulling the duvet up to her chest, tucking her back in.

“You just like Jack McCoy, making prosecutors look all dangerous and sexy,” she rasps.

“Aren’t we?” he asks, propping his chin on top of her head.

“I don’t know, I’ve seen the archive footage that ABC has of you from the eighties,” Mac drawls nonchalantly, taking his arms and wrapping them around her waist.

_“What?”_

There were, of course, a few of his cases that got media attention, but only one or two had become the focus of national news--unlike what certain crime procedurals would have you believe about the nature of the judicial system. Why would Mac--

Will figures that that’s an exceedingly dumb question to ask, but regrets the fact that MacKenzie has sought out the video evidence of terrible hair and questionable color palettes.

“Babe, I know everyone,” she reminds him, voice dim and sleepy, twisting and turning and eventually burying her face against his shoulder and throwing her legs over one of his thighs.

If he keeps talking about absolutely nothing of consequence, she’ll probably drift off. (He learned to take that as a compliment years ago. Not much can make Mac’s thoughts stop spinning long enough for her to go to sleep, not even Ambien.) Will then realizes that that’s _probably_ why Mac put on _SVU_ in the first place.

“Shut up and let me complain about procedure,” he says gently, combing the fingers on one hand through her hair.

To his relief, Mac nods against his shoulder.

“Okay.”

She drifts off by the time Elliot and Olivia put the bastard behind bars.

(And in the morning, it’s Mac shoving the thermometer in _his_ mouth, once his farm-bred immune system decides to stop servicing his city-boy ass.)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
